“Like one big happy family?” she’d said with a snort.
“Why not?” I’d asked.
“Because it is like a family. We’re the parents and they’re the children, every one of them seething with sibling rivalry. Trust me, kiddo, you don’t want them comparing notes.”
She was right, of course; I knew that now. Writers recognize intellectually that their agents have other clients, but most prefer to think of themselves as only children.
Molly finished her speech to a burst of laughter, and we left the stage arm in arm. The next singer was a young man as dark and stocky as the girl singer was pale and waifish. He sang “Ol’ Man River.” After that, representatives from some of Rowena’s charities spoke. She hadn’t chosen the fashionable causes, the boards of cultural institutions and conservancies that attracted New York’s social elite, but rather had given her time and money to causes close to her heart: campaigns for adult literacy, scholarship programs, women’s shelters, grants for writers, and support for rural libraries. Because there were more than a dozen, these speakers came up in a group, and each took a couple of minutes to talk about Rowena’s contributions to their causes. The cumulative effect was stunning. The Rowena I knew had worked hard and played hard, but this was a whole new side of her, one she’d kept on the down-low.
After more music it was time for the final eulogy, delivered by Rowena’s nephew. Chris Hubbard bounded up to the stage with some folded pages in his hand. He laid them on the podium but never referred to them.
“My aunt,” he said, in a clear, strong voice, “was the youngest of four children, born to a hardscrabble existence on a small Kansas farm. The farm produced barely enough to sustain the family and pay the mortgage. Everyone worked, children included. These were honest, hardworking, thrifty people, with a thick streak of stubborn in them. ‘Waste Not, Want Not’ was the family motto, and it wasn’t just words with us. Until she started making her own money writing stories, Rowena never owned a stitch of clothing bought new, nor a book she could call her own. She loved to read, though, and from the time she was big enough to walk the two miles into town by herself, my aunt was the library’s best customer.
“Now, you might think, hearing this, that the Rowena you knew came a long way from where she began, and you’d be right. Certainly to us back in Kansas, her life in New York City seemed larger than ours, full of adventure and foreign travel and friendships with brilliant, accomplished people. Yet as I sat here today, listening to all the things she did in her life, I realized something about my glamorous aunt that I’d never quite understood. The woman was the same person as the girl. She lived larger, but her values were the family’s values, and they never changed. She still worked hard. Wrote a book a year, come hell or high water, and I don’t have to tell anyone here what that took. She was honest with her readers: she did her research and gave them the best she had in her to give, every time. And she was thrifty, because she wasted nothing: not one penny, not one experience, not one minute of her life.
“Now I’ll tell you some things you maybe don’t know. When my aunt’s first novel became a bestseller, she paid off the mortgage on the family farm. Didn’t ask anyone, didn’t tell anyone, just went to the bank, paid, and brought the papers home to her parents. I don’t know if you can understand what that act meant to the family. For her parents it meant security, and the chance for once in their lives to invest the farm’s earnings into growth and improvement instead of paying interest. For her siblings, it meant freedom, options they’d never had before. For her nieces and nephews . . .” He stopped, sipped some water from a glass on the podium, then continued steadily.
“Rowena had no children, but she took a parental interest in her nieces and nephews. She wasn’t one to shower the people she loved with money. Instead, she encouraged us to set goals, and when we met them, she made sure that lack of money never stood in the way. When my cousin graduated veterinary school, Rowena paid off her loans and enabled her to open a much-needed large-animal practice in our own county. My cousin Ralph opened a pediatric clinic, the only one in a fifty-mile radius of our hometown, where most folks don’t have health insurance. Only way he can afford it is he’s got no loans to pay back either.
“She didn’t pay off my loans. She said lawyers can pay their own debts, and I agree with that. But here’s what she did. The day after my graduation, which she flew to Chicago to attend, she took me shopping at Brooks Brothers and Neiman Marcus. She bought me an entire wardrobe, a watch, and a Gucci briefcase. Nothing I could say would stop her, which if you knew my aunt you’ll understand. ‘If you want to make a million, you gotta look like a million,’ she said, which I believe is something Molly taught her. I got my first job wearing one of the suits she bought me. I’m wearing another one now. She said I needed a black suit. I just never expected I’d be wearing it to her funeral.”
His voice broke, and he lowered his head. After a minute, during which there was not a sound from the assembly, he straightened and resumed in a steady voice. “It wasn’t just family. When the town lost its only fire engine, Rowena donated a new one. There’s four kids a year from our town attending college who wouldn’t be if it weren’t for her. My aunt Rowena lived a full, rich life far from her origins. She blasted her way through many doors; but she never forgot where she came from, and she never closed those doors behind her. May the murderer who took her life roast in everlasting hell; and may our dear Rowena rest in peace.”
Chapter 17
Why does death sharpen the appetite? Do we feel a void and mistake it for hunger? Or is it a way of exalting life over death, like making love after a funeral? Whatever the cause, the effect is predictable and I’d planned for it. There was to be a cold spread in my apartment for a few dozen friends and out-of-town visitors immediately after the memorial, and if I was to arrive before my guests, I had to leave quickly.
And yet for several minutes after Chris Hubbard’s eulogy, I sat without moving and heard nothing that was said to me. The woman was the same person as the girl . . . she lived a full, rich life, but she never forgot where she came from. High praise, the very definition, it struck me now, of integrity. And yet, although my eloquent young friend could not have known it, those very words were a reproach to me. I, too, have led a full and useful life, far from the place of my origins; but unlike Rowena, I have forgotten where I came from. I, too, have pushed through many doors; but unlike Rowena, I locked them behind me and swallowed the key.
There is no connection between the girl I was and the woman I am, and I’d always believed that a good thing. Hadn’t Hugo admired that quality in me? I came with no baggage, which meant plenty to a man with so much of his own. His phoenix, he’d called me, his fabulous creature born from the ashes of her past. I took a less romantic view. For me, amnesia was the better part of valor, or at least the only part I could lay claim to. What can’t be fixed had better be forgotten, I’d thought, but Rowena had made different, perhaps more honorable choices. If her life was a tapestry woven through with themes and motifs, mine was a patchwork quilt with missing panels.
Perhaps that’s why, when Teddy Pendragon ambushed me in the aisle, I didn’t shy away. Lorna stepped forward to intercept him, but I waved her off and offered him my cheek.
Teddy kissed it and took my hand in his. “It was a beautiful tribute.”
“She was a beautiful person.”
“And the nephew—what a grace note that was! Look, Jo—”
“I know, I know. You’ve been very patient.” Now that I’d paused, people were starting to clump up around us, waiting for a chance to speak to me. “I have to run. Why don’t you come back to my place? I’m having a few people over. We can talk.” I saw Lorna’s face over his shoulder. She looked shocked, and no wonder; I’d been ducking his calls for weeks. Enough ducking, I thought.
“That’s very kind,” Teddy said. I reclaimed my hand and hurried on. Outside, L
orna hailed a taxi. Just as I started climbing in, I noticed Tommy Cullen standing a few yards away, gazing at me. “Hold the cab,” I told Lorna, and crossed the pavement toward him. Last time we’d met we were both a little worse for drink. He was sober now, and somber, but he cobbled up a smile when I reached him.
“Hey, Jo.”
“Tommy. Any news?”
He shook his head.
“How is that possible?” I said. “It’s been weeks since the murder, months since the stalking began. How long can this go on?”
“Until we catch him,” he said. “Which we will. Hang in there, Jo.”
• • •
The caterers had set up while I was out, and by the time I walked in with Lorna, the dining room had been laid with a cold buffet, extra chairs and tables scattered around the living room, and my meager bar supplemented with bottles of wine and Champagne. The rich, earthy scent of brewing coffee perfumed the air.
My guests followed close on my heels. Molly came first, with Max and Harriet in tow—Charlie Malvino, I was happy to see, had not tagged along. The Hubbards arrived with Keyshawn Grimes, then Teddy Pendragon with Rowena’s publicist and a contingent of Pellucid brass. The rest were a mix of clients, agents, and editors. The mayor stopped by for a plate of lobster salad and mentioned a book he planned to write when his term ended. Gordon Hayes came in with Jean-Paul; they had brought Mingus home from the office, where I’d left him so that the caterers could get into the flat. “He looks great,” Gordon told me when I met them at the door. “Maybe put on a pound or two.”
“City living,” I said. “All those yummy leftovers.” Mingus sat beside Gordon, gazing up adoringly. I felt guilty about shutting the dog in my bedroom, but with so many people milling about, it had to be done. I hadn’t had such a crowd over in a very long time. Hugo and I used to entertain constantly between books, everything from intimate dinners to large, raucous parties; but when he was writing, he detested intrusions. It was my job to prevent them. Keeping one’s friends at bay is a treacherous skill, and it’s possible, I sometimes thought, that I had gotten too good at it.
It felt unexpectedly good to see the rooms filled again, buzzing with laughter and conversation. Waiters kept replenishing the buffet, a bartender saw to the drinks, and Lorna had stationed herself at the door to take coats, which she hung on a rack the caterers had supplied. There was little for me to do but drift from one group to another, welcoming, introducing, dipping into conversations, and then moving on. I ate nothing, but drank several glasses of wine.
I looked around for the Hubbards. Chris was engaged in conversation with Rowena’s editor, but his mother hovered alone in a corner of the dining room, looking shy and ill at ease. I went and found Teddy, who could talk to anyone, and drew him away from his group. “Let me introduce you to Rowena’s sister,” I said, slipping my arm in his. “She doesn’t know anyone here.”
“Gladly,” he said. “But you’re the one I need to talk to, Jo. I’ve been filling in as best I could, but the project has reached a point—”
“Come Sunday afternoon,” I said. “I’ll have his papers ready for you.”
Teddy stared at me. He probably thought it was the wine talking, but in fact it was the eulogy. “And we’ll talk?” he asked.
“We’ll talk.” I introduced him to Janet Hubbard. When I left them, he was telling her a story, probably apocryphal, about meeting her sister on a Nile cruise.
Presently the salads, cheese, and sandwiches disappeared from the table, replaced by platters of pastries and fresh fruit. Wine goblets gave way to coffee cups, and a feeling like flat Champagne settled over the company. That’s always the way of it: bereavement outlasts its ceremonies.
Janet and Chris Hubbard left for LaGuardia, and the others took that as their cue. By eight thirty, everyone but Molly, Max, Lorna, Jean-Paul, and Chloe had taken their leave, and the caterers had finished clearing up and slipped away. I was anxious to talk to Max and Molly privately, so I shooed Lorna out after pressing money on her for a taxi home; but Jean-Paul seemed reluctant to leave us, and Chloe to leave him.
“Can I walk Mingus for you, Jo?” he asked. Behind him, Chloe scowled.
“Gordon did already,” I said. “You kids go on now. I’m sure you have better things to do on a Friday night.”
“Not really,” he said.
Chloe took his arm and dragged him toward the door. “C’mon, genius. Can’t you see the grown-ups want to talk?”
“Call me if you need anything, Jo,” Jean-Paul was saying as the door closed behind them.
Max burst out laughing. “What did I tell you? Did I call it?”
“Shut up,” I said.
“I’m so good I scare myself. Just don’t break the kid’s heart.”
I wondered how else it could end, if Max was right. I looked at Molly, who shrugged. “What do you expect?” she said. “You’re older, powerful, beautiful. Don’t look so stricken, kiddo. Everyone gets crushes, and most of us survive them.”
I’ve been sleepwalking, I thought. Tommy Cullen had said so, and it seemed he was right. I wondered what else I’d failed to notice.
The caterers had left a pot of coffee brewing, and Max got up to prepare three cups. Molly kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the sofa. Her bare legs were covered with gooseflesh. I went into my bedroom to fetch an afghan.
She opened her eyes as I tucked the throw around her. “It really did go well, don’t you think?” she said.
“I think Rowena would have loved it.”
Max handed out the cups. “I think she would have expected the Rockettes and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.”
I laughed. “Tough combination. How long are you staying, Max?”
“I’m catching the red-eye home tonight. Any longer away from home and I’ll start lactating. What’s going on with the investigation, Jo? Do they have a suspect?”
“Apart from me, you mean?”
“No!”
“Rowena left me a bequest in her will, which naturally means I murdered her.” I spoke lightly. It was old news to me, and despite Tommy’s warning, I couldn’t believe anyone could take that theory seriously. But Max slammed his cup down so hard that coffee sloshed into the saucer.
“Morons!” he cried. “Everything else aside, she was surely worth more to you alive than dead.”
“I pointed that out. I think they’ve moved on, but I don’t really know. They won’t tell me anything.”
“Not surprising, if you’re on their list of suspects. What about your boy Tommy; won’t he talk? Guy’s got a soft spot for you.”
“More of a sore spot.”
“Well,” Molly said reasonably, “you did dump him for Hugo.”
Max looked at her, then back at me. He ran his hand along his bald pate. I wondered if bald men retain a sense of their hair, the way amputees still feel their phantom limbs. He said, “You told me it was casual.”
“That’s how I saw it. I guess he saw it differently.”
“So you were lovers. How long?”
“About a year. It ended when I met Hugo.” I should tell them, I thought, about the ring Tommy had carried around in his pocket. But I knew what Max would do with that information. His mind was an express train; it skipped the local stops.
“So,” he said, “all this time Cullen’s been questioning you about jilted lovers or someone with a grudge, he’s been describing himself.”
“Who says he has a grudge? It was ages ago; we were kids. Everyone’s moved on.”
“And you know this how?” Molly asked. “Is he married?”
“I don’t think so. There’s no ring, and he doesn’t feel domesticated.”
“The point is, he never should have taken the case,” Max said. “Why did he, I wonder.”
“Duh!” Molly said. “He wanted to see her again.”
Max flicked her a smile. “That’s certainly one possibility. Of course, if he was the stalker, he’d naturally want to control the investigation.”
“If he were the stalker,” I corrected him. “He’s not. No motive, for one thing.”
“Revenge. You ruined his life, now he’s going to ruin yours.”
“But I didn’t. And even if I had, why come after me now, nearly fourteen years later?”
“Some stressor in his life, maybe.”
“Feeble.”
“Feeble for fiction, maybe. Real life has lower standards.” Max peered at me, as if uncertain whether I understood the difference. “In the real world, people do terrible things for the most trivial reasons. Sometimes they get obsessed; they blame one person for everything that’s gone wrong in their lives. Sometimes they do it just because they can, because the opportunity’s there and the malice is there, and they think they can get away with it. Cullen has the expertise to hack into your computer without leaving a trace. And he’s a cop; Rowena would have opened the door to him.”
I forced myself to consider it. I could see Tommy standing on Rowena’s doorstep, saying with his best country manners and the Kentucky drawl he turned on and off like a faucet: “We’re talking to all Ms. Donovan’s clients, ma’am, if you could spare a few minutes.” She’d have wanted to help . . . and she’d have liked the look of him, too.
I could see all that. What I could not envision was the sequel: Tommy pulling out a gun and shooting Rowena in cold blood.
“No way,” I said. “Impossible. I know this guy.”
“Do you?” Max gave me his standard-issue inscrutable FBI look. After a moment, when I failed to implode, he smiled and was himself again. “I don’t believe it either. Just playing devil’s advocate. Molly probably got it right the first time: he wanted to see you, and be seen.”
A Dangerous Fiction Page 17